Into the void

Thursday, January 14th., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

Well, here I am at last. A dream fulfilled. A reality still to experience.

I left the Rue de Calais yesterday, depressed, at 5 pm. after having lunched with Chichi. Was my depression due to leaving her behind? Or to do with the fact that she was quite evidently not so concerned that I was leaving her behind; perhaps I had hoped to be missed? I think our relationship has now run its course and I am grateful for it; my intimate knowledge of the ways of women having been increased immeasurably.

The drive to the Gare de Lyon along the interminable length of the Rue de Rivoli got on my nerves. And I was decidedly excited and 'wrought up' when the train de luxe came up and I saw Phillpotts. Much talking and mutual satisfaction, continued on the train. I have a sore throat now! The train left sharp at 6 pm. and arrived here at Menton sharp at 9.56 this morning. On the whole a really good sound train. It would be almost perfect if it had a drawing-room car, as it certainly ought to have. The ceaseless noise and jolting did not noticeably affect me much. I took a sedative and slept very well, though mostly conscious of the action and the din.

Coming along the coast I had my first glimpse of Monte Carlo and the salons thereof. I was duly impressed by the beauty of the coast, and of Menton in particular. But my thoughts were chiefly occupied with the idea of the train, that luxurious complete entity - running through a country and ignoring it. I seldom had the least idea where the train was. Space, as a notion, had vanished for me. I might have been in the void.

And now four weeks of new impressions, new people, and new air to look forward to. Of course we have a good deal of work to do, but there will be time enough, I am determined. I can hardly believe I am here.

Liverish

Wednesday, February 3rd., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

The ideas of the average decently-informed person are so warped, and out of perspective, and ignorant, and entirely perverse and wrong and crude, on nearly every mortal subject, that the task of discussing anything with him seriously and fully and to the end, is simply appalling. This has struck me several times recently in this hotel, and I have recoiled from a discussion. The state of that average person's mind can scarcely be contemplated by me, in certain moods. All of which probably says more about me than it does about the average person! Why indeed should I expect that people would be interested to listen to my ideas, and be persuaded by me? The fact is, and I know this very well, most people who want to 'discuss' something actually just want to give you the benefit of their own thoughts. And if I am honest, so do I!

Most of the time this doesn't bother me, but now and then it does. I have probably been working too hard on this damned play. Why am I doing all the hard work, when Phillpotts will get equal credit for the end product, if there is in fact any credit to be had? It is a footling thing, but marketable. Today for example I wrote 2,000 words of Act III. No wonder I am out of sorts. Also my mother is reportedly very ill in London and I shall have to get back there by the end of next week at the latest. And I am keeping up my correspondence and my regular articles. 

I have found time to read (re-read) some of "Crime and Punishment". The funeral feast given by Catherine Ivanovna is a magnificent piece of work, both as serious accurate observation and as brutal humour. My sense is that the translation isn't very good, but still the power of the novel shines through.

Balcony breakfast

Saturday, January 16th., Menton

I wrote 2,500 words of "A Great Man" today, but it's difficult to work hard at a novel and appreciate a new environment at the same time. I am here with Phillpotts collaborating on the writing of a play. Perhaps we should have stayed in England where there would be few external distractions. 

Yesterday I woke up just before dawn, and there was a red streak of light along the horizon, and the sea smoke colour, and the lamps and the riding lights of the vessels just beginning to be ghostly. On either side the hills with their bare rocky tops. Later I took my tea and croissant out on the balcony in the 8.30 am sun, wrapped in my largest overcoat. It was tremendous after the bed breakfasts of a Paris flat.

I breakfasted on the balcony again today, in dressing gown and overcoat, and all day I have had the atmosphere, perfectly wonderful, and the magnificent views from the balcony. Beyond a walk to the centre of town and the bandstand I made no excursion.

Before dinner Eden and I discussed and settled certain outstanding preliminary points in our play. It only took about half an hour. I expect to begin the actual writing on Tuesday, and the actual detailed constructive thinking on Monday.

Return to Menton

Friday, February 19th., Hotel Winter Palace, Menton.

I wrote 700 words of "the Vanguard" before leaving Genoa for Menton. A beautiful day, hot. We left by the Pullman at 11.58 and arrived at Menton promptly just after 3 (French time), despite Customs and passports. Train stuffy on account of an oldish gentleman who had just recovered from influenza and was justifiably afraid of draughts.

The atmosphere of the Winter Palace is mainly English. The dinner scene in the large restaurant was markedly English. I haven't yet heard an American accent; which is very odd after Rome.

Miraculous colours

Friday, January 15th., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

Hotel d'Italie by Lessieux

 I woke up this morning just before dawn, and there was a red streak of light along the horizon, and the sea smoke-colour, and the lamps and the riding lights of the vessels just beginning to be ghostly. On either side the hills with their bare rocky tops. Then, when I woke up again, the strong sun was shining brilliantly onto my balcony and almost into my face. There must be a fairly strong off-shore wind blowing, but this place is very sheltered and the sea seems quite calm. However, one can hear the wind. The beauty of the landscape and of the old Italianate town to the right, with its red flat-square conical roofs, and the delicate softness of the air, make a deep impression on one.

Menton by Emile Appay

I took my tea and croissant out on the balcony in the 8.30 a.m. sun, wrapped in my largest overcoat, and in the sunshine. It was tremendous after the bed-breakfasts of a Paris flat. 

Night. The beauty of this place even grows on one. The afternoon and dusk were simply miraculous for colour. Before lunch I went for a walk up on the hill and then down again and along the coast. I walked into Italy in about a quarter of an hour. Most of the morning I spent out on the balcony thinking out Chap. V. and before dinner I wrote 700 words.

Also see 'From my balcony', January 9th., -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/from-my-balcony.html


Additionally for January 15th., see 'Looking for Elsie' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/looking-for-elsie.html

Yesterday afternoon I suddenly decided that I couldn't proceed with my story about Elsie until I had been up to Clerkenwell again. So at 4.50 I got a taxi and went up Myddleton Square.

From my balcony

Tuesday, January 9th., Menton.

Breakfast on the balcony again yesterday, while the fishing boats went out one by one straight into the dazzle of the sun, with an extraordinary sentimental effect. A highly dandiacal yacht, with fittings all brass and mahogany apparently, had been at anchor since we came; she was moored by two ropes to the jetty, and by two anchors from the stern. I noticed a detail of actualness which might be brought into a scene with great effect. The yacht swung from side to side on the jetty ropes, lifting first the starboard and then the port rope clear of the water, and as each rope came clear of the still water, the drops from it fell into the water in hundreds for a few seconds making a wonderful pretty pattering sound. On first catching this sound I did not perceive how it was caused.

Sailing boats at Menton

I finished reading "Jekyll and Hyde" before breakfast today. It is not bad. I thought less than ever of the writing, which is never more than dignified. As regards the scientific part, after Wells it comes feeble. No future novelist will be able to 'fudge' science now that Wells had shown how it can be done without fudging. Perhaps I am somewhat lacking in objectivity about this because Wells is of course a good friend of mine. All the potion business in Jekyll's final document is childish and unconvincing, and mars what is otherwise the strongest part of the book. The psychology of the last chapter is indeed really good and subtle.

A contemporary poster

Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde is the original title of a novella written by the famous Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson that was first published in 1886. It is about a London lawyer named Gabriel John Utterson who investigates strange occurrences between his old friend, Dr Henry Jekyll, and the evil Edward Hyde. The work is commonly associated with the rare mental condition often spuriously called "split personality", referred to in psychiatry as dissociative identity disorder, where within the same body there exists more than one distinct personality. In this case, there are two personalities within Dr Jekyll, one apparently good and the other evil; completely opposite levels of morality. The novella's impact is such that it has become a part of the language, with the very phrase "Jekyll and Hyde" coming to mean a person who is vastly different in moral character from one situation to the next.

<http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42>

Heading south

Thursday, January 14th., Menton.

I left the rue de Calais yesterday, depressed, at 5 p.m. after having lunched with C. The drive to the Gare de Lyon along the interminable length of the rue de Rivoli got on my nerves. And I was decidedly excited and 'wrought-up' when the train de grande luxe came up and I saw Philpotts. Much talking and mutual satisfaction. (I have a sore throat now) The train left sharp at 6 p.m. and arrived here at Menton sharp at 9.56 a.m. this morning. On the whole a really good sound train. It would be almost perfect if it had a drawing-room car, as it certainly ought to have.

The Calais-Mediterranée Express was a luxury French night express train which operated from 1886. It gained international fame as the preferred train of wealthy and famous passengers between Calais and the French Riviera. It was colloquially referred to as Le Train Bleu in French (which became its formal name after World War II) and the Blue Train in English because of its dark blue sleeping cars. The height of the season for "le train bleu" was between November and April, when many travellers escaped the British winter to spend time on the French Riviera. Its terminus was at the Gare Maritime in Calais, where it picked up British passengers from the ferries across the English Channel. It departed at 1:00 in the afternoon and stopped at the Gare du Nord in Paris, then travelled around Paris by the Grande Ceinture line to the Gare de Lyon, where it picked up additional passengers and coaches. 

It departed Paris early in the evening, and made stops at Dijon, Châlons, and Lyon, before reaching Marseilles early the next morning. It then made further stops at all the major resort towns of the French Riviera, or Côte d'Azur, before reaching its final destination, Menton, near the Italian border. The sleeping cars had only ten sleeping compartments each, with one attendant assigned to each sleeping car. Early passengers included the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VIII), Charlie Chaplin, designer Coco Chanel, Winston Churchill and writers F. Scott Fitzgerald, Evelyn Waugh, Somerset Maugham, and Arnold Bennett.

 The ceaseless noise and jolting did not noticeably affect me much. I took a sedative and slept very well, though mostly conscious of the action and the din. Coming along the coast I had my first glimpse of Monte Carlo and the salons thereof. I was duly impressed by the beauty of the coast, and of Menton in particular.

Menton 1904

But my thoughts were chiefly occupied with the idea of the train, that luxurious complete entity - running through a country and ignoring it. I seldom had the least idea where the train was. Space, as a notion, had vanished for me. I might have been in the void.